Maximum Security (20 page)

“What’s in it for you?” the Kydd asks. He points toward Anastasia. “She gets the money. But what do you get?”

I can see Collier in full profile, revolver still in hand. He has the Kydd in point-blank range now. “Twenty Questions is over,” he says.

And he’s right. It is.

The blast knocks me backward for a second and then I’m through the throne-room door. Collier writhes on the floor, clutching his shoulder, a pool of blood collecting on the floorboards beneath him. His weapon is nowhere to be seen. Anastasia backs up against the steam-room door and wails. It’s even worse than the funeral keening—she’s scared now. The beast scampers around the room in circles.
Yip-yip-wail. Yip-yip-wail.

No Kydd.

My Lady Smith zeros in on Anastasia—Collier’s not going anywhere at the moment—and I flip on the tulip-shaped lights above the sink. And then the Kydd’s head pops up, as if he’d been attached to a TFR. He’s in the hot tub. “Look what I found,” he says, showing me Collier’s revolver. His tone suggests he found a shiny new penny, head’s up.

“Get out of the damned tub,” I tell him.

I’m going to strangle him yet.

The Barnstable County Sheriff’s Department kept Steven Collier company at Cape Cod Hospital and then transported him to the Superior Courthouse for his arraignment. They arrived at four
A
.
M
. By then, Geraldine had completed the paperwork necessary to secure Louisa Rawlings’s release. The night clerk called Leon Long at home and the judge agreed to come in as soon as all the major players were assembled. And now, at four-thirty, almost all of us are here.

Harry listened without interruption as the Kydd and I recounted the evening’s events. “Sweet Jesus,” he says to us now, his hazel eyes wide. “You two are dangerous.”

The Kydd and I both laugh, cavalier now that we’re out of harm’s way. “You speak truth, Kimosabe,” the Kydd intones, his expression grave.

“Think about it,” I tell them. “Herb Rawlings fell backward and hit himself on that brass swan. What if Herb had landed somewhere else? A few inches to either side and none of this would have happened.”

Harry lowers his chin and his eyebrows knit.

I shrug. I realize that
what ifs
don’t matter in our world. This is the kind of rumination a
real
defense lawyer wouldn’t indulge in. But I’ve certainly never laid claim to that title.

“A few inches to either side,” Harry says, “and Lincoln would’ve gone to the cast party.”

He’s right, of course. Now there’s a
what if
.

Steven Collier comes through the side door, flanked by county sheriffs, one arm in a sling, the other cuffed to one of his escorts. He sits at the far end of the jury box as directed, his cuff-mate standing beside him. Collier’s cold eyes meet mine and I can’t resist. I give him a little wave—à la Rinky Snow—and punctuate it with a satisfied smile. He deserves every last miserable day that lies ahead. Not only because he murdered Herb Rawlings, but also because he damn near succeeded in forcing Louisa to pay the price for his cowardly crime.

Anastasia enters next, between two less-than-happy-looking matrons, and it’s somewhat startling to see her dressed in orange. She’s not only cuffed; she’s shackled at the ankles as well. She must have gotten belligerent with her keepers. She shuffles across the courtroom without looking at her partner in crime and thuds into a chair on the end of the jury box closest to us. She glares at us, her teeth and fists clenched, and this time I figure it’s the Kydd’s turn to wave. He does. And he grins for her too—his signature grin.

“This is all for the best,” Harry whispers from his chair behind us.

Leave it to Harry to find a silver lining. I can’t fathom what it might be. The Kydd and I both turn to face him and he’s staring ahead at the two prisoners. “They would have had ugly children,” he says.

“Don’t even go there,” I tell him.

Harry starts whistling softly when the Kydd and I face front again. It takes a few seconds for me to recognize the tune. Harry’s heartwarming rendition of “Daddy’s Little Girl” sends the Kydd into a laughing fit beside me. And I lose it too—I can’t help it. We’re all punchy again. We need to go home.

Bert Saunders hustles down the center aisle and takes a seat next to Harry at the bar, nodding a silent greeting to all of us as he opens his briefcase. He’s winded. He must have just been appointed to represent one of the newly accused. I don’t envy him.

Harry doesn’t either, apparently. He interrupts his tender melody and leans over to Bert, looking truly sympathetic. “Makes
DeMateo
look like a walk in the park, huh?” he whispers.

Bert closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Mother of God,” he mutters, “help us all.”

Woody Timmons is in the still-dark gallery, on the aisle end of the front bench nearest us, his notepad and pen in hand, a small tape recorder on the bench beside him. The night clerk must be on his list of courthouse cohorts. And I suspect the clerk will be wined and dined quite nicely this afternoon at the Jailhouse. Woody’s got an exclusive on this one.

Lance Phillips is the only other person out there in the darkness, in the aisle seat opposite Woody’s. Lance, as it turns out, was upstairs, napping in one of the guest bedrooms, throughout our ordeal in the Queen’s Spa. He showed up in the doorway when it was over, just before the Chatham police arrived, asking what all the commotion was about. He must have been in a near-coma is all I can figure. The service must have worn him out. Or maybe it was his tumble to the floor. Or maybe it was just Anastasia.

Louisa enters the courtroom next and, as Geraldine would say, the gang’s all here. Louisa comes through the side door, looking exhausted, in her butter yellow coat dress and heels, beige trench coat and hat in hand. She crosses the room without a single glance at her stepdaughter or her former financial advisor and joins us at the defense table. Once again, the Kydd holds a chair out for her. He really is gallant—a modern-day Rhett Butler at heart. “Thank you, Kevin,” she says, brushing his hand. And just like that, he’s pink again.

Collier and Anastasia should be sitting at this table, of course—not us. They’re the accused now. But technically, they can’t be arraigned until the charges against Louisa Rawlings are formally dropped. And Geraldine Schilling is nothing if not technically accurate.

The night clerk tells us to rise—Joey Kelsey’s not here at this hour—and Judge Long emerges from chambers. He’s in his robe, looking far more chipper than the hour justifies. We all take our seats and the judge looks around the room slowly at each of us, silent. His final gaze falls on Louisa.

“Mrs. Rawlings,” he says at last, “this court owes you an apology.”

Louisa turns to me, uncertain. This is a first. “Go ahead,” I tell her. “No need to stop now.”

She gets to her feet and looks up at Judge Long. “This court,” she says in her soft Southern lilt, “treated me fairly. There’s no need for an apology, Your Honor. I have no complaint.”

She sits and the judge falls quiet again, his eyes not moving from her. “Attorney Schilling,” he says at last, “I trust you have the necessary paperwork.”

She does. She leaves her table and crosses the courtroom, hands a short stack of photocopies to me, and then carries the originals up to the bench.

The Kydd reaches across our table for the documents and I start to pass them to him, but then I think better of it. “You’re off duty,” I tell him. “As of this minute, you’re off for the weekend. And yes,” I add, “that would be Friday, Saturday, Sunday.”

He beams at me. Louisa does too. “I love this job,” he says to her.

Judge Long finishes signing off on Geraldine’s forms, hands them back to her, and then looks over at Louisa again. “You’re excused, Mrs. Rawlings,” he says, removing his glasses. “You’re free to go now. And you take with you the sincere apologies of this court.”

Louisa turns to me. “Thank you, darlin’,” she says.

I wish she’d stop calling me that.

We all head for the center aisle but Geraldine stops us. “I hope you meant that,” she says to Louisa, “about being treated fairly.”

Louisa takes a moment to answer. She looks Geraldine in the eyes when she does. “The
court
treated me fairly,” she says. “You did your job. And I understand that. But I found you decidedly unpleasant.”

Geraldine laughs. She’s been called worse. “Fair enough,” she says, and extends her hand. Louisa accepts it.

“I know you’ve never practiced,” Geraldine says as we start to leave again. “But do you have any interest in giving it a shot?”

“Giving it a shot?” Louisa looks at Geraldine as if she just propositioned her.

Geraldine tosses her blond head toward Judge Long on the bench. “Well,” she says, “you seem to have a way with the judges.”

“Are you offering me a
job
?” Louisa lowers her voice as if the word is vulgar.

Geraldine shrugs. “I guess I am.”

Harry leans over to whisper. “Shoot me now,” he says, “so I can live in hell instead of Barnstable County.”

He’s right, of course. Geraldine and Louisa in the same office—worse than hell; hell on heels. And think of poor Clarence.

Louisa spreads her arms out toward the near-empty, cavernous gallery and laughs out loud. Dawn is making an appearance now, soft, early-morning sunlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, reflecting off the tin codfish suspended in the center of the room. I’ve always loved spending time in this old courtroom, but it’s pretty clear Louisa Rawlings doesn’t share my sentiment. “You’re offering me an opportunity to spend my days
here
?” she asks Geraldine.

Geraldine laughs again. “I promise to call you a lawyer
ess
,” she tries.

Louisa takes the Kydd’s arm and they head for the center aisle. “You’d have to promise more than that, Miss Geraldine,” she says over her shoulder. “Much, much more.”

Harry stares, his mouth wide open, as Louisa and the Kydd depart arm in arm. At long last, now that the two of them have hit him over the head with it, he gets it. “That
dawg
,” he says. He sounds frighteningly Southern.

We watch in silence until they’re almost out of the courtroom and then Harry turns to me, smiling. “You see?” he says. “I told you so. You
do
like her.”

“I was pretty damned sure she didn’t murder anybody,” I tell him. “But don’t start planning double dates.”

He’s correct, of course. Louisa Rawlings is all right in my book. Even her drawl is beginning to grow on me. And at this particular moment, all’s right in the world, too. Well, in Barnstable County, anyhow.

Anastasia Rawlings is on a fast track—with a one-way ticket—to Framingham. Steven Collier—the brains behind the operation to the extent there were any—won’t see the light of day during this lifetime either. He’s headed to Walpole, the maximum security facility for the Commonwealth’s gentlemen guests.

Woody Timmons is still on the front bench, waiting for the second half of his scoop to begin. Lance Phillips is here too. He’ll have sole custody of Lucifer now, I suppose. And if he can’t go home and pen a best seller after this, he’d better start searching for a day job.

Judge Long is on the bench, bound and determined to dispense justice in a system that sometimes makes it difficult to do so. Geraldine is at her table, equally intent on imposing the harshest possible sentence on her new targets, even if justice be damned.

Luke, I hope, is at least
thinking
about heading back to Boston College.

Louisa Rawlings is sashaying into the sunrise, Tonto at her side. I can’t help wondering how long it will last.

Me—well, I’m headed home. And Harry is beside me—right where I want him.